


Capsize

by brosephine-grant (dollinkdollink)



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 10:32:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8664322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollinkdollink/pseuds/brosephine-grant
Summary: It might not be perfect, but it's theirs.  Post-ep for "The Kill List".





	

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to vast_difference for reading this over and helping me to reign in some overeager punctuation. :)

In the end, it isn’t the way Serena rocks slowly against the thigh between her legs as Bernie’s body all but pins her to the filing cabinet, sharp edge barely registering, or the little moans and whimpers vibrating up from the back of her throat. No, it’s the way her own hips begin to jerk reflexively forward, and the sudden change in texture between the silky skin of Serena’s stomach and the new laciness she finds as she palms the swell of her breasts, that cause Bernie to mumble “wait… Serena… stop for a second…” against the other woman’s lips.

It isn’t that she hasn’t fantasized about this, so many times and in so many ways, dreaming of having her against every surface in their office. But those varied scenarios have always had one thing in common: they were never, ever The First Time.

Serena - fantastic, fearless Serena, always so willing to dive in heart-first - crosses her arms self-consciously over her chest, and Bernie stutters out an explanation.

“I’ve… I’ve done this before.”

“Yes, I’m certainly glad one of us has.”

“No, no, I meant… this.” She waves nervously around the office. “The whole… ‘sex in the workplace when you’re supposed to be on duty’ thing. It’s… it’s never as satisfying as you hope. I don’t want to make that mistake again.”

They both know that she’s talking about more than just sex. She’ll make plenty of mistakes with Serena, but she doesn’t want them to be the same mistakes she made with Alex, doesn’t want them to burn hot and then cold until there is nothing left but an empty place in her heart that she can’t quite be sure was ever really full.

“No, of course you’re right.”

“Besides… I believe I still owe you dinner at my place.”

Serena raises an eyebrow at the thought of ‘Bernie’ and ‘cooking’. “And what were you thinking about eating?”

Bernie smirks. “I have some ideas.”

***

Despite her flirty tone, “some ideas” turns out to be “Italian” or “Thai”, half-eaten take out boxes of the latter quickly forgotten in favor of the hastily wrapped and just as hastily unwrapped bottle of duty free wine. That, too, is soon forgotten in favor of wandering lips, and wandering hands, and then the couch is similarly abandoned in favor of Serena - nervous but oh so brave - imploring, “Bernie, take me to bed.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I want you.”

And, finally, it’s as easy as that.

***

It’s unfair, Bernie thinks, that this should be part of her penance, getting to worship Serena in this way. She should be made to ache for her a little longer, the way she’d ached for her in Ukraine, the way she’d almost ached for her forever.

But this isn’t about filling any horrible, empty, lonely hole in her own heart. This is about Serena, about filling her with love and devotion and passion and pleasure until she’s overflowing with it, the excess spilling out in cry after cry as she writhes beneath her on the bed, so open and vulnerable and glorious.

How had she deprived herself of this for so long? How had she ever thought that she could live without it entirely?

When Serena reaches for Bernie in return, when she begins to kiss her way over the scar between her breasts and slowly down her toned stomach, Bernie awkwardly blurts out “You don’t have to, Serena, really.”

This is, as usual, The Wrong Thing To Say, and Serena’s glowing face suddenly contorts with hurt and confusion. “Do you not want…?” The “me” goes unspoken, but they both hear it ringing in their ears all the same.

“No, it’s not that-“ and she reaches for Serena’s hand, brings it down to brush through the slick heat between Bernie’s thighs. “It’s definitely not that.”

“Then what?”

“I’ve… I’ve had complaints.”

Serena’s eyebrows spring up, nearly disappearing into her hairline. “I doubt that.”

“No, it’s true. I’m not… I’m too…” she scrambles for the words to make her understand. There was “frigid”, of course… that’s what her first boyfriend in university had called her. Marcus had never been so cruel, but his gentle promptings of “I wish you’d let me hear you” and “I wish you would tell me what you want, what you like” and once, towards the end of their marriage, when he’d had to much to drink at a Christmas party, “I wish I could believe that you really enjoy this” felt like condemnations all the same, more ways she’d failed him as a wife. It was better with Alex, but even she had told her once or twice “it will feel so much better if you relax, Bern”, as if relaxing wasn’t the very hardest thing to do when you were trying your very hardest to relax.

“I’m not very… well, vocal, I suppose. I wouldn’t want you to think you were doing anything wrong.”

Serena’s eyes are dark and unreadable as they bore into hers. Then, quiet but firm, “that’s what you don’t want. What is it that you do want?”

Bernie’s heart pounds in her chest as – slowly – she let’s go of Serena’s hand, allowing her skillful surgeon fingers to go to work, followed swiftly by that wicked mouth that she’s come to love so much. Serena takes her time, her scientific mind deriving unfathomable pleasure from exploring and cataloging and learning from every buck and twitch and hard swallow.

For a time, the only sounds in the room are the wet noises that Serena’s hands and mouth make against Bernie’s skin, in concert with Bernie’s heavy breathing and the ever quickening squeak of the bedsprings as her hips thrust to meet Serena. Her body begins to tremble silently, and then Serena is stroking her thigh with her free hand and murmuring, “it’s alright, you’re alright, darling, you can let go.”

And, for once in her life, Bernie believes it.

She tenses, and then cries out hoarsely, the sound surprising both of them. Serena’s hands continue to stroke her skin, that low voice still soothing her with sweet nothings as her muscles relax and her breathing slows, giving Bernie her space without breaking their connection, and Bernie feels her eyes prickle with tears of love and gratitude.

***

Any dreams Serena might have had of waking up slowly in her lover’s embrace to a soft “good morning” are quickly abandoned as she’s startled awake by a loud thud and a whispered “shit!” and the singular vision of Bernie’s arse as she hops and shimmies her long, elegant legs quite inelegantly into those skintight jeans.

“It isn’t that I mind the view,” Serena mumbles sleepily, and Bernie almost trips again as she spins around at the sound of Serena’s voice. “But isn’t it a little early to be getting dressed? We don’t have to be into work for hours yet.”

To punctuate her point she stretches luxuriantly, letting the sheets slip ever so slightly down her chest. Serena can’t see the blush staining Bernie’s cheeks in the dim light filtering through the window, but she is becoming increasingly familiar with the filthy smirk that accompanies it as her eyes drink in the newly exposed skin.

“As tempting as that is, Serena…”

“Yes?”

Bernie’s smile becomes suddenly soft, suddenly shy, suddenly sweet. “I wanted to bring you coffee and breakfast in bed,” she explains sheepishly, “but I remembered that I’m out of food. And coffee.”

The warmth spreading through Serena more than makes up for Bernie’s missing body heat in bed. “Well, give us a kiss, at least.” She’s fully aware that she’s grinning like a fool, and doesn’t care in the slightest.

Bernie’s morning kisses are slow and teasing and taste like tobacco and spearmint, her breath hot as she whispers “I’ll be back soon” against Serena’s lips. This time, she is.

A little while later, between kisses that taste of coffee and pain du chocolat (“you might be okay with crumbs in your bed, Miss Wolfe”, she playfully chastises her, a smear of chocolate on her top lip, “but don’t think you’ll be getting them in mine.”), Serena thinks that – while it might not be the perfect romance she’d fantasized about while Bernie was away – with a little teamwork, they might just be able to build something even better.


End file.
